


Culture

by orphan_account



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Fluff, Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor Kenway often finds himself exasperated at his father and his British friends. </p><p>Why would anybody actually want to watch Eurovision? What is the point of afternoon tea? Why does the Queen have her own personal rock band?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culture

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme. Original prompt is long and can be found here: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9173251#cmt9173251
> 
> Will probably develop into a series of short stories. I like modern AUs.

  
Connor did not dislike his father. True, he was abrasive, snide and overly obsessed with politeness and manners, but so was every other British person Connor had ever met. Most of the time, Haytham Kenway was surprisingly fun to be around, underneath the sarcasm and the nit-picking. For example, during Connor's more-or-less monthly visits, Haytham would inevitably scoff at one of the TV shows Connor was watching, and insist upon watching something 'better'. By which he meant 'British'. (To be fair, the I.T. Crowd and Never Mind The Buzzcocks _were_ pretty funny.)  
  
He would often tell Connor interesting stories about the rich and varied (and quite frankly sometimes outright insane) history of the United Kingdom, always promising to take a trip there after Connor finished high school. Connor did not doubt his father would make good on his promise. He certainly had enough money to make the trip happen, and he owned a fancy house in Queen Anne's Square, apparently something of a family heirloom in one of the more upper-class areas of London.  
  
Every now and then, Haytham would insist on having an old-fashioned high tea, with several pots of different types of tea and hot toast and currant scones and cake. Connor always felt a little guilty when Haytham sipped Earl Grey with a faraway look in his eyes. He'd figured out when he was seven that look meant his father was homesick.  
  
Often, the teas coincided with certain events. Certain events that Haytham tended to organise gatherings for. Gatherings primarily composed of other British people. Gatherings that centred around some level of... patriotism, even though all present denied any pride in their nationality. Connor had a sneaking suspicion his mother chose these dates for his visits on purpose.  
  


* * *

  
"We beat those bloody frogs!" somebody crowed, happily. Connor was squished between one of his cousin's friends- Shaun, wasn't it?- and his father, glaring at the screen. Somebody did something on-screen, and the whole room, sans Connor, cheered. Even Haytham.  
  
Connor sighed. He'd much rather be queueing posts for his animal blog than watching soccer or rugby or whatever stupid sport this was. Haytham's explanations of the differences between American and European sports did nothing but confuse him, in all honesty.  
  
He froze as the faint strains of a too-familiar song started to play.  
  
"Turn it up," Haytham commanded, and whoever had started the music obliged. Connor shut his eyes. He knew what was coming next.  
  
 _"Another one bites the dust..."_ the most drunken partygoers began singing along. Other voices joined in, out of tune. _"Another one bites the dust... And another one down and another one down and another one bites the dust..."_  
  
Connor had no idea why the Queen had her own personal rock band. He was certain that if their music wasn't played religiously at events like these, he would like them better.  
  


* * *

  
"Who is that?" Connor asked, pointing at one of the men on-screen. He rubbed his bleary eyes, and took another long sip of sweet tea.  
  
It was stupidly early in the morning, and Haytham had insisted that Connor get up at an ungodly hour and try to look presentable to watch the Royal Wedding as it happened. Connor thought this was an incredibly stupid thing to do, and was doing everything in his power to irritate Haytham enough to get himself banned from the living room.  
  
"Prince Charles' brother, Prince Andrew and his wife, whatever her name is." Haytham replied, eyes fixed on the screen. "Edward and his spouse are next to them."  
  
"And the girls with the antler hats?"  
  
"Fascinators," Haytham snapped. "They're princesses."  
  
"They do not look very princess-y to me," Connor remarked. "They are wearing far too much makeup."  
  
"And how many princesses have you met?" Haytham asked, snidely. "That's Beatrice and... I forget the other one's name, and Zara Philips is on the far end."  
  
"What about the lady with the hat? At the front?" Connor continued. Haytham tore his gaze from the television and gaped at him in abject horror.  
  
"That's the Queen. The _Queen._ How can you not recognise Her Majesty?"  
  
"She looks old."  
  
"She _is_ old. In a good way. Her coronation was in nineteen fifty-three." Haytham was starting to lose patience. "She's the _Queen_. Of nearly a third of the world. _A third._ "  
  
Connor shrugged.  
  
"And the dude next to her... The duke of Scotland, right?"  
  
"Edinburgh. Which is in Scotland. Scotland isn't a _city_ , boy."  
  
"Okay." Connor rolled his eyes, before an idea occurred to him. He cleared his throat. "I thought he was a racist."  
  
"Only to the Chinese," Haytham replied.  
  
"Because he fought in the Opium Wars, right?"  
  
Haytham looked even more horrified, if that were possible.  
  
"The...? Connor, they were over two _hundred_ years ago! He isn't that old!"  
  
"Wait, so how come there was all that trouble over the Falklands?"  
  
"I..." Haytham's face was a picture. He looked as though he didn't know whether to laugh, cry or strangle Connor. "What?"  
  
"Yeah, in the seventies or eighties? That had nothing to do with tea?"  
  
"We were at war with _Argentina_ during the Falklands mess! How could it have anything to do with tea?"  
  
"Argentina is near China, right?"  
  
"No!" Haytham near enough howled in frustration. He scowled and shut his eyes. Took a few deep breaths before continuing. "Look. I want to watch the Royal Wedding in peace. I'm glad you're so interested in your cultural heritage, and we can have a history lesson later. Please just be quiet and go to your room and do whatever it is you teenagers do these days."  
  
Connor rolled his eyes, and obeyed.  
  
"Whatever."  
  
When he wandered into the kitchen later, he glanced into the living room, mostly to see if the wedding was over yet. What he actually saw was Haytham curled up on the couch, clutching a cushion and his cell phone, on the verge of incoherent sobbing as the Duchess of Cambridge and her husband rode around London in their pretty little car. He was furiously texting somebody, probably Charles.  
  
He shuddered, finished making his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and went back to his room to Facebook Desmond the details of the whole mess.

 

* * *

  
"No," Connor snarled. "We are not watching this."  
  
"But it's _Eurovision_ ," Haytham said, as if that made things any different.  
  
"That is _why_ we are not watching it."  
  
"It's a part of your cultural heritage."  
  
"How?" Connor gestured at the TV screen. "How is this stupid song contest part of my cultural heritage?"  
  
"It was invented by the British," Haytham said, simply. "And then Europeans ruined it."  
  
"Britain _is_ a European country," Connor protested.  
  
"No, we _tolerate_ Europe."  
  
"It does not matter," Connor said, stopping that particular debate in it's tracks. "We are not watching it."  
  
"Yes, we are," Haytham replied, snatching the remote from the coffee table so Connor couldn't touch it. "Look, Israel's on. They're usually quite good."  
  
"How is Israel part of Europe? It is in the Middle East!"  
  
"Ssh, my son. Don't question such eccentricities. No good can come of it."  
  
"Do _not_ 'ssh, son' me," Connor said, indignantly. "You are trying to force me to watch Eurovision. _Eurovision!_ There is no point! We never come _close_ to winning!"  
  
"I beg your pardon," Haytham snapped. "We won five times!"  
  
"Yeah, in fifty years. When was our most recent win, again?"  
  
"Nineteen ninety-seven," Haytham replied, triumphantly.  
  
"Wow," Connor said, as sarcastically as he could. "It has only been fifteen years. So I was, what, _two_ the last time we won?"  
  
"We came close last year! Eleventh place!"  
  
"Amazing. Remind me what happened in two thousand three?" Connor asked, snidely. "Or two thousand eight? _Two thousand ten_?"  
  
"You missed the 'and'."  
  
"You are not answering the question."  
  
"Oh, for the love of God," Haytham moaned. "Go away. Let me watch my country crash and burn in peace."  
  
"Gladly," Connor said, giving his father a pat on the back as he left the room. "Remember to tell me what the final scores are."  
  
He dodged the cushion a very irritated Haytham threw his way.


End file.
